Lights glowed ahead of them, and they heard hammering. The suck of fresh air under pressure, vapored like steam, whirled around them in gusts, and the water oozed and rippled beside their feet as they went forward. The carpenter was putting in a new set of timbers, and his task was nearly finished, while beside him waited a drill man and a swamper with the cumbersome, spiderlike mechanism ready to set. The carpenter gave a few more blows to a key block, and methodically flung his hammer into his box and hurried back out through the tunnel toward the cage, intent on resuming his work at the mill. Bill tentatively inspected the timbers, tapped the roof with a pick taken from the swamper's hands, heard the true ring of live rock, and backed away. The drill was drawn up to the green face of ore. "About there, I should say," Dick directed, pointing an indicatory finger, and the drill runner nodded. The swamper, who appeared to know his business, came forward with the coupling which fed compressed air to the machine, the runner gave a last inspection of his drill, turned his chuck screw, setting it against the rocky face, and signaled for the air. With a clatter like the discharge of a rapid-fire gun, the steel bit into the rock, and the Cross was really a mine again. Spattered with mud, and satisfied that the new drift was working in pay, the partner trudged back out. They signaled for the cage, shot upward, and emerged to the yard near the blacksmith's tunnel in time to see a huge bay horse, with a woman rider, come toiling up the slope. There was something familiar about the white hat, and as she neared them they recognized The Lily. Before they could assist her to dismount, she leaped from the saddle, landing lightly on her toes, and dropped the horse's reins over his head. "Good-day--never mind--he'll stand," she said, all in a breath, striding toward them with an extended hand. Dick accepted it with a firm grip, and lifted his hat, while Bill merely shook hands and tried to smile. It was to him that she turned solicitously. "I'm glad you are out," she remarked, without lowering her eyes which swept over the bandages on his face. "You're all right, are you?" "Sure. But how's that girl? It don't matter much about an old cuss like me. Girls are a heap scarcer." The owner of the High Light looked troubled for a moment, and removed her gloves before answering. "Doctor Mills says she will live," she said quietly, "but she is terribly burned. She will be so disfigured that she can never work in a dance hall any more. It's pretty rough luck."